


Dandelion Hair and Honey Skin

by vcumonkey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vcumonkey/pseuds/vcumonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How was he supposed to convince someone who didn't know him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Cream (from my livejournal account, vcumonkey.livejournal.com)  
> Word Count: 711  
> Fandom: Once Upon a Time  
> Pairing: Captain Hook (Killian Jones) and Emma Swan  
> Rating: PG (slight SLIGHT swearing--Hook IS a pirate, after all, but it is slight. Seriously)  
> Author's Notes: All stuff belongs to ABC and Once Upon a Time peeps. The words come directly from the episode "Going Home", so SPOILERS (as River would say).

The first thing he notices is _her_. Her cream-colored checkered pajamas, her dandelion hair, her honey skin. _Emma_. He gives her a lopsided smile, choosing to ignore her confusion for the moment, and just looks at her. Breathless at the sight of her (it had been far too long, in his opinion), he says, “Swan.”

 

Before she can respond he is moving forward, toward her, toward her golden hair and saffron skin and _Emma how long it’s been_ —he’s reaching for her, saying, “At last,” but she makes him pause, with her hand at his leather clad chest and her words, “Do I know you?”

 

He curses under his breath, low so that she cannot hear (he’s unsure how this Emma might take his piratey mutterings). He had hoped just the sight of him would make her remember (he is enough of _Hook_ to admit to vanity, but really), but she just looks at him in confusion, nervousness, and slight fear (the first is predictable, the second he hoped because she was attracted to his dashing good looks, but the third was unexpected and unwanted). He had been sent here by her parents to help save the Enchanted Forest (again) by another threat (not surprising)—he really should find another place to live. This threat was green and nasty, more evil than Cora (and really did not have Cora’s taste in attire—ruby shoes?) While he had counted on a bit of persuasion, he had wished for it to be simpler.

 

Desperate methods.

 

Giving her a modicum of space (for the moment), he imploringly searches her eyes. “Look, I need your help. Something’s happened. Something terrible. Your family is in trouble.” He looks to see if these words have _any_ weight, but he finds none.

 

“My family,” she says angrily, “is right here. Who are you?”

 

He sighs, again cursing Pan (the motherless bastard) and his damned games. “An old friend.” _Please remember, Swan. Emma._ “Look,” he starts, voice catching, “I know you can’t remember me, but—” A glimmer of recognition sparks in her eyes and he continues, bolstered by it (which is probably why he became so reckless). “I can make you.” He grabs her, hand delving into her sunny locks (oh, how he missed this). His lips briefly meet hers, and he relishes the contact after so many long months away. He is allowed a second of touch, before she shoves him away, knee making unpleasant contact with his groin.

 

Letting out a grunt of pain (or two), he is successfully thrown back from Swan, his back hitting the sallow wall behind him. He barely registers her confused and breathless words (“What the hell are you doing?”) and responds (equally as confused and breathless), “Long shot. I had to try.” He shakily stands, shuffling to her again, saying, “I was hoping you felt as I did.” _I was hoping you thought of no one, dreamed of only me, wished for me, ached for me as I did you. I was hoping you could remember me by true love’s kiss, that damned magic. I was hoping you longed for me, loved me as I you._ He admits to his foolish endeavor; it was derisible to believe Emma would have loved him before, and even more puerile to believe that she had remembered it, when she did not even remember her parents.  Hook is crushed, obviously, but this had not been his only hope. He has other tricks up his leathery sleeve.

 

“All you’re gonna feel is the handcuffs when I call the cops.” Ah. His Emma, always so full of quips and one-liners. It’s a wonder she and Regina didn’t get along more.

 

He reaches out to her again. “Look, I know this seems crazy! But, you have to listen to me. You have to remember!” He curses as he is once again faced with the black door. Pacing, he tries to think of other strategies. How did she remember last time?

 

Oh. The boy. Right. Well, that’s out then.

 

Sighing angrily, he gingerly sits on the floor, stares at the cream colored wallpaper of the hall, and plans his next move. Emma would remember, of that he had no doubt. He would not give up without a fight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our leathered hero encounters the new world of New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 967  
> Warnings: None (not really; do remember that this is Captain Hook we're talking about, and he will use language)  
> Disclaimer: I don't own ABC or Hook or any of that stuff.  
> Author's Notes: This is AU (after the episode airs, of course), but I based most of it off of the BTS pictures of "New York City Serenade". As of now, it's mostly canon, and hopefully in March most of it will still be! Fingers crossed!  
> And sorry for the shortness of the chapter...seemed the best place to end it.

He is beginning to hate that black door. Sitting in front of the damned thing does nothing for his plans, and pacing in front of it only serves to tire him out after his long journey (and the well-placed knee of Emma’s). After he has glared at the cream-colored wallpaper and cursed everything from Emma’s stubbornness to her good aim, he sighs angrily. The sounds of a family eating breakfast bleed through the accursed door, talking about things that have nothing to do with Storybrooke or the Enchanted Forest or green witches or dashingly handsome pirates. Three times he raises his good hand to knock again at the black wood, and three times he lowers the fist to his side. Finally, he decides that waiting there by her door after she had so gracefully ousted him from it would seem a bit odd, and, if he’s honest (which he is—mostly), a bit desperate. And Captain Hook is anything but desperate (even if Killian Jones is).  
  
It is as he is storming down the carpeted stairs (he absolutely  _refuses_ to enter the boxed death trap which moves up and down on tiny cables) that he feels the bottle bouncing against his ribs. He never forgot the blasted thing; Baelfire had discovered the concoction in the old alchemy tower of his father’s ruined castle (damned  _Neal;_ it’s hard to like someone who is after the same woman, who is so much like his coward father that he decides against a journey to find said woman, and yet he cannot hate Bae, not when Baelfire had so much of his mother’s spirit). He had given the potion to Hook, telling him that it would make Emma remember. Bae had also asked Hook to tell Emma she was missed, and that she was never far from his thoughts. Rolling his eyes as he steps into the foyer of the apartment building, Killian thinks that it would have done him far less good to kiss Emma and then tell her not only that  _he_ loves her, but also another man loves her; even  _less_  so to tell her that one is a pirate and the other is the son of Rumpelstiltskin. She probably would have sent for the authorities far sooner.  
  
Walking into the dreary city where he was once abandoned (by the same woman he is trying to save), he is assailed by the cold, pelting rain. All around him people swarm, their heads covered by odd contraptions by which water bounced, protecting the populace that were fortunate enough to own such devices from becoming drenched, as he is becoming. As he is in his finest leather (nothing but the best for his darling Emma), it is not a comfortable feeling, and he is anxious to find lodgings where he can best put together a decent plan for either winning Emma’s heart again, forcing her to drink the potion, or a combination of both. He is not sure which would keep him from becoming injured once more, and would quite hope to avoid further damaging his…goods. He knows that it would be quicker to force Emma to drink the concoction, but the bit of pride and dignity he has left wants her to remember who she once was because of  _him_ , not because of something the crocodile had created.  
  
He rushes through the street, spots a promising hovel that claims to serve the finest “brew” in the state (he wonders if it means rum—he could do with a bit of rum), and makes his way towards it, dodging the strange people with their water deflectors. He attracts a few stares when he walks to the barmaid; it is useful having this fake hand, but he misses his hook when many gawp at him so. Although, in this bizarre land the metal curve of his favorite appendage would probably draw more than just stares.  
  
The barmaid eyes him with either interest or unease, but greets him nonetheless. “Ah. Yes. Hello, love. Ehm....” He glances around him for _something_ resembling rum, but sees nothing that looks like his favorite brown drink. He does, however, see many patrons with mugs and cups of plastic with some kind of murky brown liquid, and decides that it must do. “Yes, I’ll, um, I’ll have that. That drink there.” He points to a man with a frothy mustache, thinking that it couldn’t be that bad. The barmaid asks for coins, and he realizes then he has none. Well, none that could be accepted in this strange land. Bugger. “Oh. It seems I have misplaced my silver, love. Could I owe you a debt?”  
  
It is not long after this he is forced under the bloody rain, yet again. By the look of things he’ll fall ill before ever recovering Emma. Speaking of….As his location is not far from her lodgings, he is able to catch a glimpse of her and the boy (Henry, he really should start calling him Henry; it was hard, though, as the child either got lost or changed his face before Killian could actually get to know him). They are standing near Emma’s yellow vessel (no, they call them something else here…cars?), and she too has the strange water deflector, and she uses it to protect her son as he folds himself into the vessel. Then, without even a glance around, she packs away the device and steps into the car. He watches as it sails away (although not as smoothly as his beautiful ship; how he misses the Jolly Roger) and wonders when she might return. He thinks he might wait in the foyer of her building once more, at least until the infernal rain lets up. Maybe he would avoid catching a cold if he were to rest somewhere dry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook encounters foam, mud, and infernal women stubbornly refusing to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own ABC, Hook, or any of that stuff. This is just something I do to help me through the hiatus. (at least it isn't as long as Sherlock's hiatus. And at least I don't have to wait as long to see Hook again as I do for the Doctor.)

Cars fly past in the slowly dwindling rain, throwing water onto curbs and passerby alike. Hook is glad to be indoors, staring out of the tall window of the foyer of Emma’s apartment building. He had been able to sneak through the door when a tiny, old lady left, quickly opening her anti-water device. Ages seem to have passed, and he feels like he is back in Neverland for all of this infernal  _waiting_. Surely, Emma would have to return to her home, where she would hopefully listen to sense. And if she did not…well, he isn’t a pirate for nothing.  
  
His conscience twinges, and he tries to write it off as hunger but he knows better. Blast. When did Killian the gentlemen weasel his way back and silently slay Hook the pirate? Before this damned  _morality_  he would have had no qualms about stealing a pretty lady, leaving her child behind with only a coward to watch over him. Gods, but what would Milah think of him now, desperate and pathetic? He is a waste of a pirate and a sorry excuse of a man, leaning his head against glass, aching for Emma, as fraught with worry as a mother bird.  
  
He sighs. It would not serve his purposes to continue berating his foolish behavior. With this thought in mind, he braves the dying rain, wandering aimlessly down the street, avoiding the puddles as best he can. A plan is indeed needed, one that does not involve Emma murdering him or seriously injuring his bits. He winces at the memory as he peers into shop windows, hoping for a stroke of luck that is as elusive as a ghost.

****

  
The yellow beetle turns into the street, sloshing muddy water from its tires. It slows as its driver spots a break in the numerous cars lining the curb, and then it is joining its peers, shutting down for a well-deserved rest. Driving in the rain is usually not that big of a deal, but today, the rain was monstrous, and Emma had been forced to go through puddle after puddle after pothole of mud and dirt and grime from the city, and the poor yellow car is now mottled with differing shades of brown. Looking at it grimly, she decides she might have to get it washed before going out.  
  
As she is walking to her apartment building, she remembers the funny man that had shown up on her doorstep that morning, claiming to be someone from her past, someone that knew her family. Her mouth tingles as the memory of that kiss invades, and she chuckles with only slight remorse as her knee twitches, as well. She glances around, wondering where he is now, and fails to notice him watching her from a tiny café across from her building.  
  
Hook feels like a spy, or more, like a stalker. What kind of man stares at a lady getting out of her vessel, watches her as she walks down a street, wonders what it is she is thinking? A vile one, that is for sure, but he must make contact somehow, and so far, his methods have been abysmal. He knows he needs to assess the situation before lunging in, as he did this morning, because his Emma is not easily swayed by soft words and a mouth-watering kiss (not to brag, or anything).  
  
He had been lucky to encounter a man that was willing to give him a few coins. Well, he says  _willing_ , but what the man did not know wouldn’t hurt him. And after all, you could take the pirate from the sea but that would never make him any less of a pirate. With his coin purse much heavier, he had been able to go back to the little shop selling the brown stuff, and had been able to give the barmaid something in exchange for a “cuppa-chino”, as she called it. It had been foul, to say the least, but it gave him something to do as he watched the street with foam on his lip, waiting for Emma to return.  
  
He straightens in his seat, now, as he watches Emma pause in front of the door to the foyer. She reaches into her jacket with an expression of what seems to be delight, and pulls out a long, thin device that she puts to her ear. Ah, he remembers those from Storybrooke. People had walked around the streets speaking into them, and he sometimes had been able to hear little voices coming out of them. Strange devices, they were, but he had been told they were  _cellular phones_ , and people could speak from long distances as if they were next to each other. Useful, they were. It would have been rather easy to speak to his crow’s nest, as opposed to attempted shouts and whats.  
  
Wondering who could possibly light up Emma’s face like that, he quietly leaves the café and sneaks around cars and passerby, gaining distance to his quarry as inconspicuously as he possibly is able. He is sure he looks odd, a strange man in a leather coat with a fake hand, bent double and low to the ground, darting from person to car like an overgrown version of a child playing hide and seek. But he cannot let his Emma see, because she is sure to become the ferocious woman lingering beneath the surface. Finally reaching a spot in a doorway that is a safe enough distance from her to avoid confrontation, but close enough to hear, he listens with a soft grumble as she charmingly laughs to her phone companion.  
  
“You really shouldn’t say such things, you know. Bad for the image,” she teases, and he grimaces at her soft tone. The person on the other side responds, and she giggles,  _giggles_ , again, and something within him snaps. He clenches his hand against his thigh and prays to whatever gods he knows that she is not speaking to a man.  
  
“What time are we meeting, by the way? I need to drop Henry off at the babysitter’s….I know, he thinks he’s old enough now, too, but she’s such a nice girl….Remember Madame Gothel’s charge?.... _Such_  a creepy woman, but the girl is nice enough….I think she’s turning eighteen soon so she’ll be able to get away from her….Well, Henry thinks she’s pretty cool, or so he has told me. But he still thinks he can be on his own….I’ve told him that she needs to have some sort of responsibility, and hanging out with a twelve-year-old that already has a lot of that will help her….How does seven work for you, then? There’s a place over on Fifth that has outdoor seating, and since the rain finally let up it might be nice….The one across from Ginger’s Bar, do you know it? ....Great, I’ll see you then.”  
  
She is smiling as she disconnects the call, and he hopes again that she is meeting a lady friend, not a man with which she holds affections. He attempts to reason that having another man vying for her hand in the picture would only make his task harder, but not-so-deep down he knows the truth. As Emma walks into her building, Hook steps out onto the street and begins his quest for the bar belonging to Ginger on Fifth in New York. Shouldn’t be too hard.

****

  
Two hours and just as many sore feet later, Hook curses his luck and the infernal city. First time he comes here, he stabs his prey and then gets left behind with a knot on his skull and a headache to prove it. Now, he’s lost, aching, and hungry. And he has become a feeble child, whimpering internally over his plights. Good gods, he needs to get back to the Roger, needs to find something to pillage, needs to plunge his sword into a foe’s gut. He  _needs_  to get out of this city that has  _broken_ him.  
  
Desperate to find the elusive fifth street before seven (and judging the sun’s position, it is nearing six—at least his navigation skills have not fled), he stops the first person he encounters, which, luckily for him, is a woman. Time to lay on the ol’ Killian charm.  
  
“Excuse me, miss, but I fear I am in need of direction.”  
  
The woman in question (blonde,  _always_ blonde) stutters in her steps and clutches her handbag tightly. Her eyes pop as she takes in the pirate in front of her (as he is nothing  _but,_  no matter how one tried to spin it), but a slow smile overtakes her as his words grab her (the women in this city are suckers for accents, and he thanks his stars for growing up where he had).  
  
“How can I help?” Her voice is hoarse, and he grins, knowing that he has not lost his charm with his manhood, at least.  
  
“I am meant to meet a friend,” he says with a deep frown, “but I am utterly lost in such a large place. Would you assist me in locating a place called Ginger’s Bar on Fifth?”  
  
Her face brightens further (an impossible task, he would have thought) and she replies with fake sincerity, “Oh, you poor man. It’s quite far. I suppose you’ll have to have dinner with me, instead.”  
  
Gods, but this was sickening. Standing before him is a ready-made bedmate, serving herself on a silver platter, and all he can think about is Emma. How the mighty have fallen. “I’m afraid this meeting is a matter of life or death, my dear,” which isn’t a lie, not really, as Emma _is_  needed for more than just the sake of his sanity.  
  
Her face falls, and she nods with defeat. “Well, it  _is_  far, but you can just take a cab….” She trails off as he shakes his head.  
  
“You need coin—ah, money, for that, correct?”  
  
“Well, yes, but didn’t you bring any?”  
  
“I fear I left it at home.”  
  
The grip on her purse becomes tighter. “You can certainly walk there, but it might take you a while. If you go up this street for five blocks, you’ll see Fifth Avenue, and it’s just a straight shot to Fifth, at least twenty blocks. Ginger’s is there, you should see it. Not a bad bar, good people work there. I hope your meeting goes well, but if it doesn’t, here’s my number.” She pulls a card from her purse and hands it to him with a wink, and walks away. He has enough sense to call out an acknowledgement of gratitude before he is quickly pounding the street towards Fifth Avenue, the card dropping from his hand and drifting into a muddy pothole.

***

  
Ages.  _Bloody ages_. He is no stranger to walking, or covering long distances, but the environments in which he does so are jungles, fields, the sea. Not hard surfaces and tall buildings that all look alike, or people that jostle and grumble and shout. The trek had taken him far longer than he had expected, and when he finally spies the restaurant across from Ginger’s Bar, Emma is already there with her companion.  
  
He is a well-dressed man, with brown hair that curls around a pale neck that Hook is immediately anxious to throttle. The soon-to-be-dead stranger stands too near to Emma, and she leans into him in a way that makes his heart clench and his gut sick. Too familiar. Too  _intimate_. The look on her face is sad, and he wants to make this man suffer for whatever it is he is saying to make his Emma feel so despondent. He is not near enough to hear the exchange, but before he can move closer, the blackguard reaches for Emma, his arms wrapping around her, and hers gripping back just as firmly.  
  
He wants to hit something.  
  
Luckily, they break apart fairly quickly, and the dapper louse moves away, leaving Emma standing on her own in front of a white table, with a phone in her hand and a frown on her lips. Hating that look, Hook finally makes his move. She glances up at the sound of feet moving towards her, and the frown is replaced by an expression of shock. “What are  _you_  doing here? Have you been following me?” He winces at the outrage in her voice, and attempts to placate her.  
  
“Look, Emma, I know you don’t remember me. I do. But you  _need_  to listen to me.”  
  
“I’m not listening to anything you have to say.” She turns to leave, but he stops her with his hand on her arm. “Get your hand off of me,” she says quietly.  
  
“I’m sorry, but I cannot. You need to come back. Your parents are in great danger.”  
  
A look of incredulity spreads across her face. “This again? Look, buddy, I  _have_  no parents. Mine  _abandoned_  me in a forest when I was a baby. So what should  _I_  care if they are in danger?”  
  
He curses her stubbornness and lack of memory. “Damn it, Emma, you only think this because you  _don’t remember_. If you would just  _listen_  to me, you blasted woman—”  
  
She scoffs. “Oh! Right, because  _that_  is the way to get someone to listen to the idiotic ramblings of a mad man! Insult them! I don’t know who you think you are but—”  
  
“I’m Killian Jones, the man  _you_  know, the man you  _trusted_  to save your son—”  
  
Her eyes narrow into a glare, and he knows he’s messed it up. Again. “I’m leaving. Stay the hell away from me and my son.”  
  
She swiftly moves to her car, and he lets out an oath. Ignoring the scandalous looks of passerby, he ambles down the street, wondering what he could possibly do now to fuck this up more. How could he make the damned woman see sense?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squirrels and Emma startle Hook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Once Upon a Time  
> Pairing: Hook/Emma  
> Word Count: 1,508  
> Warnings: Emma gets frustrated.  
> Rating: PG13  
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Not ABC, or Hook, or any of that stuff.  
> Author's Note: This is AU (after the episode airs, of course!) but I based most of it off of the BTS pictures of "New York City Serenade". As of now, it is mostly canon, and hopefully will still be sooooon!

The city wakes up with the sun, if ever it had been asleep in the first place. The bleary stare alights on a twitching, snoring figure tightly wrapped in a leather coat on a park bench. Early workers amble pass, some glancing at the body with disdain, others with gazes skating over quickly, too used to the homeless to give this odd-looking one a second thought. A tiny gray squirrel sniffs around the bench, looking for stray crumbs, its bushy tail trembling in interest. It jumps onto the wood, inhaling the strange smell of sea and magic that surrounds the sleeping man. Curious, it hops closer, jumping onto the figure’s chest. His legs jerk and his arms flail in alarm; the squirrel leaps onto the ground, chittering angrily in dismay, and it skitters up a tree in panic.  
  
Hook sits up quickly, looking wildly around for his attacker. He hears the bark of an animal and his eyes spy the squirrel in a low branch, and it is all but shaking its paw at him. He sighs in annoyance; it hadn’t been the best night of rest, what with the ever-constant noise, the worry over Emma, and the dull ache of missing the Jolly. He had certainly slept in worse places, however, and he is certain this mission of his will not take much longer, provided Emma lost some of her stubbornness.   
  
Running a hand over his face to wipe the grit from his eyes, he weighs his options. He could leave, but that isn’t even something to contemplate. Not only would he never see Emma again, it would be damning all of the Enchanted Forest to the evil will of the green witch. Plus, since meeting Emma, running away had become a less tempting choice than ever before. He could trick her; after all, he is a pirate, and this wouldn’t be too difficult. He could buy her a drink and slip the potion in; but how to get her to take  _anything_  from him, after he had cocked up all previous meetings with this forgetful Emma, is a mystery. He could kidnap her or the boy, force her to drink the potion; even if he was able to overpower her, she would probably not forgive him after she recovered her memories. The only option that is slightly feasible is to get her to trust him again. He did it once; surely he can win her over once more.   
  
He spends the morning on the bench, watching the city bloom around him. About midday, he drags his sorry self from his spot, grimacing at the pigeons that fly around him and winking at the people that stare at him. He is just about to set off when he hears her tinkling laughter, and his eyes immediately find her. She’s with the boy—Henry, Henry, must remember to call him by his name—holding his hand, laughing at something he said. He’s smiling, she’s grinning, and it is this image that keeps him from rushing towards her. She is clearly happy; she never smiled so easily before the second curse; but then, what with her son being kidnapped, nearly murdered, and body-swapped, she really had not had much to be cheerful about. Still…how could he take her from something good, and bring her to a land of such sorrow and misery? He notices, then, the quiet look of regret in her eyes, the look of a lost child—he had seen so many of those looks from the boys in Neverland—and he knows that he  _needs_ to do this. For her, for him, for the boy, for her family.   
  
Taking a deep breath, Hook sets off towards her. He knows the moment she spots him in the way she stiffens; the grin fades from her lips and she says something to Henry. He is pushed slightly behind her, and Hook watches as Henry’s head swivels from side to side. When the boy’s gaze lands on the pirate, his eyes go wide with disbelief, but also a hint of recognition.  
  
“Henry,” she says, leaning towards her son, her eyes still watching the man walking towards them, “why don’t you go to that playground over there? Hang out by the swings. I’ll be there in a moment.”  
  
He wants to reply that he isn’t a child anymore, that he’s nearly thirteen, and swings are for babies. But he recognizes the urgency in her voice, and nods his assent. She watches her only son as his feet carry him away, and she bites back the taste of panic at leaving Henry on his own while there is a strange man who won’t stay away and won’t stop telling her that he knows her parents.  
  
“Emma.” Hook stands in front of her again, with a soft expression and dark eyes. “Emma, just—just hear me out. Give me a moment to explain, and if you still don’t believe me, if you still don’t remember, I’ll leave. I swear. I’ll go, and you’ll never hear from me again. Just… _p-please_.” Gods, but he is  _quivering_ , a shaking mass, nothing of the pirate captain in his pleads and stammers. She quirks an eyebrow, and he is desperate but says nothing further, waiting for her to make the next move.  
  
She ends his suffering with a quick jerk of her head. “Fine. But make it fast.”  
  
Wasting no time, he reaches into his leather coat and draws forth a flask swirling with blue liquid. “What do you know about magic, lass?”  
  
She scoffs. “Magic? You mean little twerps with sticks and wands?”  
  
“No. Real magic, Emma. The kind of magic you once knew how to wield. The kind of magic you  _still_  have surrounding you, even if you don’t use it.” He is still focusing on the blue flask, its contents dancing and twirling enticingly. She  _must_  feel its power; he certainly can, and the spell contained within is useless to him. He has no lost memories, nothing to be recovered, save for the woman standing before him.  
  
She follows his gaze, and while she knows, she  _knows_ that what he says can’t be true, that what he insists is just the ravings of a lunatic, she still feels a pull, a pull that she can’t explain, that she has felt for nearly a year. She can’t remember having this feeling a year prior, or in the years before that. In fact, if she really thought about it, all of her memories between giving birth to Henry and a year ago are quite hazy, almost as if a dull film covered them, as if her memories were broken photographs of someone else’s life. “Who  _are_  you?”  
  
His eyes soften further, and he breaks his stare at the glass to look at her. “Emma. Darling. You  _know_  me. I helped rescue your boy. I protected you from giants and Pan. I came all this way, at the behest of your father, to bring you back to your home. Your  _real_ home.”  
  
Her brow narrows. “ _What_  are you  _talking_  about? I  _am_  home. My father…my father is dead, gone—he abandoned me. So did my mother.” She starts backing away, and he reaches for her. “I don’t—I can’t—I know you  _think_ you know me, but you don’t. I don’t…and I just…I can’t. I have Henry to think about, and we’re in  _fucking_  New York, no giants here, and you—you’re crazy, you are, so just stay away from me. Stay away from my family.”  
  
Stricken, he follows her, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “Look, love, I’m certain this is all very strange for you, but it’s the same for me. I don’t enjoy this, you not knowing me. I  _missed_  you, and you can’t even bloody remember how much I  _love_  you.”  
  
She inhales shakily and tries to move away, but the grip on her arm tightens, pulls her towards him. “You need to let me go.”  
  
“Emma.” He pleads with her, and oh how he  _hates_ this weak, pitying creature he has become! Her bottom lip trembles, and he  _wants_ , wants her to remember, wants her to  _love_  him like he loves her, just wants. He does not even realize that he is kissing her until she shoves him from her, reminiscent of the last time his mouth touched hers (although lacking in the knee, thankfully). Becoming aware of her cries of alarm, he curses. Hands grab him from behind, force him away from Emma.   
  
He sees remorse in her stare, and it is this that inspires him to break free from his captors, quickly placing the potion in her hands. “Drink this, Emma. Drink this, and I swear, I  _swear_  you’ll understand. Try something new. It’s called  _trust_.” She watches as the police officers wrestle him away, the cold bottle in her hand. She feels the pull again, but now it comes from two directions—towards the liquid in her palm, and towards the strange but familiar man being taken away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook has fun with an icy cop. And Emma makes decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it! Now that the hiatus for OUAT is over, I'll just have to write some fiction for Dr. Who and Sherlock...

**Fandom:** Once Upon a Time  
 **Pairing:** Hook/Emma  
 **Word Count** : 1,508  
 **Warnings:** Emma gets frustrated.  
 **Rating:**  PG13  
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own anything. Not ABC, or Hook, or any of that stuff.  
 **Author's Note** : This is AU (after the episode airs, of course!) but I based most of it off of the BTS pictures of "New York City Serenade". As of now, it is mostly canon, and hopefully will still be sooooon!

 

 

It sits on her dresser, taunting her with its aquamarine dances and twirls. It sings to her, calling her like a siren, begging to be consumed. She ignores it, for a time; after leaving the park with Henry with the flask weighing heavy in her coat pocket, they went to a café, had an early dinner, went home and watched a show. It moved from her coat to her jeans, and she could feel its outline as she kissed her son goodnight, as she moved around the apartment, turning off lights and settling into the darkness. After undressing for bed, it had moved to the top of her dresser, and its color was dimmed with the gloom of night. She fell asleep to the sounds of the city, without the pull of the flask to wake her.

 

In the morning light, however, it sparkles and coils, sometimes caressing her face with glitter and other times blinding her with a blue glare. She cannot think of what to do with the thing. She knows it would be foolish to consider drinking its contents; a strange man in a leather coat is not the sort of man she would trust even if she actually knew him. But there is something deep and ancient stirring within her that she cannot explain, and grows every time she looks at the flask.

 

Henry is still sleeping. Normally, she would have already started gently waking him with the sweet smells of cinnamon hot chocolate and banana pancakes. He would amble in, tousle-haired and adorable, and she would smile at her son, still exhilarated at her long-ago change in heart. Without it, she wouldn’t have _him_ , wouldn’t have the joy that he brings her every day. She marvels at how _beautiful_ Henry’s life is, when it came from such a painful time in hers.

 

Henry is still sleeping, but she does not have the courage to wake him. She knows that when he _does_ get up, all of her focus will be on him, and she is still selfish enough to want to feel this tug towards the object on her dresser. She can remember experiencing tiny yanks in the direction of her son in the past, but this feels different; this feels like _magic. What do you know about magic, lass?_ The man’s voice pops in her head, and she can see him, standing before her, claiming to know about _real_ magic. It can’t possibly be true, right?

 

Something tells her that it can. It calls to her, leading her towards its secrets and truth. Her hand is reaching for the flask. Henry is moving around in the next room. Her fingers close around the cold glass. The blue liquid is dancing in excitement. Magic _could_ be real, but there is only one way to be certain.

 

 

***

 

Hook is in hell. He had been dragged from the park, shoved into a tiny car that swerved a bit too much, and yanked into a dank building with far too many malodorous patrons. He had been in brothels that had smelled better. He had then been shoved in front of a wall, had bright lights snapped at him, and black ink smeared all over his fingers. To make matters even more brilliant, they had told him to make a phone call (which he couldn’t do, as the only woman he wanted to talk to would probably never speak to him again, and he didn’t even know how to work the phone devices anyway), and when he didn’t, they threw disgusting food at him that even rats would never sniff. They then put him into his current home, where he was able to get a little shuteye—but the only reason this had been possible was because he had been unconscious.

 

His skull aches; one of the officers had shoved him a mite too forcefully into his cage the night previous and his head met the stone interior quite nicely. The officer in question is now standing guard, and Hook, cranky and tired, can’t help but heckle him. “Oi, mate. Are you able to rustle up some ice for me head? I would hate to pass out on you, beautiful.”

 

The officer grimaces. “You’re gonna hafta wait, mister.”

 

“Oh? Wait for what? Winter? Water to freeze? Come on, mate, my head is pounding.” Hook watches as the officer sighs in frustration and walks away. _Finally_. He searches the tiny room for something to use to escape, but his eyes land on nothing valuable. The bars, he notices in interest, are half-barrel hinges, and with enough pressure surely he could lift the door straight up. This pea-brained thought has barely formed when the icy officer struts back into the room. Sans ice. “What, mate, no ice? Still? Did you forget already, boy?”

 

“Watch yourself, _matey_. Or I might forget something else.” He pulls a set of keys from his belt and begins towards the barred door.

 

“Yeah? And what might that be, darling?” A grin is forming, warring with the headache that still pounds behind his eyes.

 

“That you’ve made bail, asshole.” The officer holds open the door with one hand and gestures out with the other. “Let’s go get your crap so you can get out of my hair.”

 

Hook makes his way out of the cage and shakes his head with amusement. “Ah, but I’ll miss you, my friend. What a pair we could have made, you and I. We could have taken the pubs by force, drank all the rum and stolen all the women. Would’ve been nice, don’t you agree?” He winks at the officer, who struggles to conceal a grin.

 

“What kind of bar do’ya think we could have stormed, then, with you in that get up? The ones at Treasure Island? Disney World?” He hands Hook his things (including the fake hand—that had been an embarrassment) and says, “Stay out of trouble, mister. I don’t want to see your face here again, ya hear?”

 

“Ay, mate. I’ll endeavor to do so, don’t you worry.” Someone leads him through the maze of corridors and another holds open a door through which bright, amber sunlight is streaming. As he steps out of the building, he blinks for a moment, getting his bearings, and a voice breaks through his stupor.

 

“You alright?” She is standing at the bottom of the steps, peering up at him with a slightly wary look about her. In her hand is the flask, still blue with its twirling contents. Feeling a twinge of disappointment, he walks slowly down to meet her. A hand tightens her crimson coat around her, and the other gently places the bottle into her pocket. He reaches her, and he can’t help but wish he could brush her dancing hair from her face.

 

“I’m fine, lass. So. You didn’t drink it, I see.” He wishes, for _once_ , she would try to trust someone. Must she always be so stubborn?

 

Her fingers grip the corner of her coat tightly. “Well, no. I didn’t. Listen, this whole thing is crazy—”

 

“I know that, love, I _do_ , but you just need to—”

 

“— _but,_ I’ve decided, against my better judgment, to believe you.”

 

That stops him. “What?” He can scarcely comprehend her words, given everything they had been through these past few days, but a smile forms on his lips nonetheless. “So why haven’t you swallowed it, then?” He gestures to her pocket, where her other hand is still clutching the flask.

 

Her lashes lower and her voice is small. “I was afraid, alright? I don’t…I don’t understand this, this feeling I have. About you, about _magic_ , but I know I feel it. I know it’s real, it’s there, whatever it is. So,” she says strongly as she pulls the bottle from her pocket, “I want to know what you know. And if you say this stuff can help, then I believe you.”

 

He grabs her, then, pulls her towards him with a desperation that frightens him. His fingers delve into her hair, and when her hands reach around him loosely, returning the embrace, a sound escapes him. He holds her closer; strands of her hair tickle his cheek and he smiles, ecstatic that she has returned to him, finally, after so long.

 

After a few moments that were far too short for his liking, she extracts herself from his arms, a sheepish grin on her face. “So. How does this work, then?”

 

He takes the hand she offers. “Let’s find out.”

 

 


End file.
